At the baby embrace and the baby voice, he stopped short in his progress. His plumy tail wagged in glad friendliness; his muzzled nose sought wistfully to kiss the pink little face on a level with his own. The baby tightened her hug, and laid her rose leaf cheek close to his own. "I love you, Miss Doggie!" she whispered in Lad's ear. Then the fat woman in black bore down upon them. Fiercely, she yanked the baby away from the dog. Then, seeing that the mud on Lad's shoulder had soiled the child's white coat, she whirled a string-fastened bundle aloft and brought it down with a resounding thwack over the dog's head. Lad winched under the heavy blow, then hot resentment blazed through his first instant of grieved astonishment. This unpleasant fat creature in black was not a man, wherefore Lad contented himself by baring his white teeth, and with growling deep menace far down in his throat. The woman shrank back scared, and she screamed loudly. On the instant the station-bound patrolman was beside her. "What's wrong, ma'am?" asked the bluecoat. The woman pointed a wobbly and fat forefinger at Lad, who had taken up his westward journey again and was halfway across the street. "Mad dog!" she sputtered, hysterically. "He--he bit me! Bit _at_ me, anyhow!" Without waiting to hear the last qualifying sentence, the patrolman gave chase. Here was a chance for honorable blotter-mention at the very least. As he ran he drew his pistol. Lad had reached the westward pavement of Amsterdam Avenue and was in the side street beyond. He was not hurrying, but his short wolf-trot ate up ground in deceptively quick time. By the time the policeman had reached the west corner of street and avenue the dog was nearly a half-block ahead. The officer, still running, leveled his pistol and fired. Now, anyone (but a very newly-appointed patrolman or a movie-hero) knows that to fire a shot when running is worse than fatal to any chance of accuracy. No marksman--no one who has the remotest knowledge of marksmanship--will do such a thing. The very best pistol-expert cannot hope to hit his target if he is joggling his own arm and his whole body by the motion of running. The bullet flew high and to the right, smashing a second-story window and making the echoes resound deafeningly through the narrow street. "What's up?" excitedly asked a boy, who stood beside a barrel bonfire with a group of chums. "Mad dog!" puffed the policeman as he sped past. At once the boys joined gleesomely in the chase, outdistancing the officer, just as the latter fired a second shot. Lad felt a white-hot ridge of pain cut along his left flank like a whip-lash. He wheeled to face his invisible foe, and he found himself looking at a half-dozen boys who charged whoopingly down on him. Behind the boys clumped a man in blue flourishing something bright.